


Keep Me Safe, Give Me Shelter

by bljohnlock



Category: Supernatural
Genre: Angst, Bondage, Hurt/Comfort, M/M, Prostitution, Whipping
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2016-01-03
Updated: 2016-07-28
Packaged: 2018-05-11 09:18:39
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence, Rape/Non-Con
Chapters: 2
Words: 2,453
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/5621833
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/bljohnlock/pseuds/bljohnlock
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Dean lives a subjugated life as a prostitute and suffers from the sadistic hands of various clients and his father, now serving as his pimp. After one particularly vicious night, he (literally) falls into the hands of an ocean-eyed doctor.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Alistair

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This is a new kind of fic, so I hope it's not too choppy. Hope y'all enjoy! (omg I feel so bad for Dean...)

Dean stands on the street corner, watching the cars pass by. He grasps onto his leather jacket, trying to find warmth. He tries to find shelter from the wind, but feels the displeased eye of the man in the car on the other side of the road. 

He is Dean's father. The man that was supposed to be his protector and guide, but now serves only as his "salesman". Dean's father, John Winchester, is his pimp.

It all started after his mom's death. After the drinking and the beatings. He always managed to disappoint his father, in everyway. Even the way John looks at him now, ten years since Mary, his beautiful mother's death, the look of shame and blame does not leave John's eyes. 

Even the drinking seems to be caused by him. All his flaws, his very existence lets disgust bleed into his eyes.

The wind continues to hit his face, and he can feel the sharp daggers of cold stabbing the threadbare cloth of his worn-out jeans. 

In a desperate attempt to forget the cold, Dean's thoughts turn to Sam: dear, sweet, smart Sammy. He is- was the most beautiful child. 

He was the one with all the good of the family, as where he had taken in all the bad. Even when Dean managed to fuck up every chance he got, Sammy grew, in the harsh conditions of John's unpredictability. 

Moving from city to city, and state to state had been difficult as John struggled to find a job. Dean remembered Sam's trusting eyes outside the flames of their burning house, and the whirlpool of angry, sad, and ever so disappointed look in his eyes when Sam... when Sam left. It has already been 3 years; Sammy would be far into his college education by now. 

Dean remembers all the memories they shared, all the ones they hadn’t, and is reminded of why he doesn’t think about Sammy often. 

A tall, dark man jerks him from his thoughts. His immaculate hair and suit fails to hide the demon that is lurking inside. Dean flicks his eyes to his father, who is unsubtly making "go" motions with his hands. Dean looks back at the client. 

His client grabs him painfully by the arm and drags him towards his car. He can feel the nails digging deep beneath his skin and gasps as he is thrown across the back seat. Alistair slams the car door shut, and walks around the car into the front seat. 

The drive to the hotel is silent, the tension hanging thick in the air. His client is known only by the name of “Alistair”, and is a regular client of his father. Alistair had often sent withering glances his way, but Dean had managed to not get picked. Dean had seen the girls and boys Alistair had been through, and it was not pretty. They often came back with bleeding wounds, bound to become scars. Dean opens his mouth in inquiry, but receives only a withering glare. He quickly shuts his mouth and laces his fingers in anticipation. They pull up at a fancy boutique hotel and Alistair walks out and grabs Dean by the wrist and half-drags-half-leads Dean to a hotel room. He tosses his car keys to the nearest valet and continues to walk, not breaking his pace. All eyes turn away and avoid the two of them. They are well payed for their silence. After a flight of stairs, they reach a mahogany door, against which card swiped and the door opened. 

Alistair mutters "Strip", before opening a cupboard. 

Dean stands still and looks at the floor, before finally gathering up the courage to ask, "What do you want to do today?". 

Alistair sighs as he tosses Dean a fresh hundred-dollar bill and repeats "Strip", in a hardened tone. Dean picks up the hundred dollars and shoves them into his pockets before taking a deep breath. He toes off his shoes and removes his socks, then his jacket and shirt. He reaches for his belt when he hears a "stop" right in front of him. Dean looks up in surprise, not having noticed that the now-half-naked Alistair is just inches from his face. 

Alistair places both hands on Dean’s hips, grinding on his flaccid dick. Alistair’s right hand slowly climbs up Dean’s back, while the other crawls down to his ass. Alistair’s right hand reaches the back of Dean’s head and Alistair fists his hand in Dean's hair. Dean's bated breath turns into a high-pitched whimper as Alistair pulls Dean’s hair back, baring his throat. A mouthful of sharp teeth sinks into his neck. Dean gasped and tried to pull back, but the action causes a trickle of blood to run down his neck. A strong hand kneads his ass through his clothes as Dean tries to hold back his tears. Soon, both hands position themselves at Dean's belt, unclasping it and pulling his underwear and pants down. Alistair lifts Dean and brings him to the bed, placing him on his elbows and knees, legs spread and ass in the air. 

Suddenly, he hears a loud _click_ as a leather cuff secures around his wrist, binding him to the bed. Dean realizes that this must have been from the cupboard earlier. He struggles, trying to stop his other hand from being tied up. Alistair scoffs at Dean's "antics" and ties the other arm to another corner of the bed. Alistair forces a spreader bar between Dean's thighs and calves. Before the clasps could be clicked shit, Dean lashed out, managing to kick Alistair in the shoulder. Alistair grinds his teeth together before twisting Dean's leg into place. The remainder of his restraints, including ones on his feet is secured. He shakes in fear as Alistair bends over Dean's body and breathes heavily into Dean's ear. 

The breathing disappears and the crack of a flogger resonates through the room. Dean renews his efforts to get away, but fails in finding any flaw in the chains. Blunt finger nails drag down his back before a dozen flares of pain burst from his back. Dean cries out, but even before his cry reaches an end, another explosion of pain erupts on the surface of his skin. With no end in sight, the whips keep coming, and Dean can feel the blood dripping down his back and, from a distance, he can hear his cries, screams, and whimpers. After what feels like hours, Dean goes limp, his mind no longer able to bare the continuous downpour of agony. 

Dean does not notice that the blows have ceased until he feels a clothed dick against his ass. 

"Beg for it," Alistair growls. 

"Please..." 

“ _Beg!_ ” 

“Please f- fuck me," Dean gasps. 

"Oh, I will baby, but don't you want a taste of my belt?" 

"Oh god, please no. I can't. Not anymore. Please. Just _please_." 

Alistair chuckles lowly before rubbing the stiff leather against Dean's ass. Dean keens and tries to pull away from the touch. The first kiss of the belt strikes Dean, and he screams through the gag. He tries to slip away from reality but the pain, the agony, keeps an iron hold on him. He feels like he is being nailed to the present. As tears runs down his cheeks, and gather at a pathetic puddle below his face, each stroke feels like a white-hot poker was being pressed down against his ass. 

The strikes begin to aim downwards, and the belt smack against Dean's balls. Dean feels his sanity slipping away, and feels the leather strap beating his thighs black and blue. There is a great strike, before the belt stops and Dean lets out a sob in relief. 

He hears the drop of clothes onto the floor, as well as the clicking of a lube cap and the slicking of a dick. Even in anticipation and fear, Dean tries to relax his body. The sensation of something warm, thick and wet presses against Dean's hole, and finally starts forcing its way in. The deep scorching heat of the stretch burns through out his spine and Dean bites down, hard, on the gag. Every inch is like a bucket of oil on a forest fire. Alistair bottoms out, and lets out a groan. Alistair runs his fingers over the marks on Dean’s back. He sets a brutal pace, constantly thrusting in and out, not letting Dean adjust. With every thrust, Alistair's waist slams against Dean's battered rear. Alistair's rhythm stutters and he slams deep into Dean before spilling his seed deep inside him. 

A few moments later, Alistair pulls out with a grunt and stands up. He undoes Dean's restraints, and Dean watched silently as irritated skin is released. Alistair flicks another hundred-dollar bill at Dean, then sits down at a chair and watches Dean expectantly. Dean pushes himself up on his hands and slides off the bed with a wince. He takes a deep breath before slowly bending down to collect his tip. Every movement pulls harshly on his wounds, but Dean holds on, putting his clothes back on in short jerky motions as he tries to ignore the pain. He can feel Alistair's eyes on him, raking up and down, enjoying the view. 

Dean limps to the door, quietly exiting the room and shutting the door. Unbidden tears well up in his eyes, and Dean lets out a small "fuck," before hastily wiping the wetness from his eyes. He limps down the hallway quietly exits the building. 

Dean walks onto a prestigious, goody-two-shoes street and drags himself along. His father will no doubt be waiting for him. His legs suddenly give out and he just manages to grab onto a lamppost. He whimpers at the sudden movement, and pulls himself back up before walking again. His head thumps from both the pain in his backside and from the hunger clawing at his stomach as he avoids the pointed looks coming his way. The looks all shout, "you don't belong here". The earth suddenly lurches and comes crashing towards him in a fell swoop. 

Big worried ocean-blue eyes fill his sight before the world blessedly fades to black. 


	2. Chapter 2

Dean abruptly sits up from the unfamiliar softness and is met with a choking silence. He waits, eyes shut and shoulders hunched in, for some sudden attack, but none comes. Peeking through his lashes, Dean sees beige wallpaper and antique furniture, something that a motel of his class would never have. He puts a hand of the bed to push himself up further in confusion only to be viscerated in pain. Gingerly placing his hands back, he expects wetness but rather is met with soft cloth. 

Running his fingers along the seams, he mumbles, “Bandages?” before letting his hand drop. Dean sets his feet down and stands up, wincing at the stretched skin and takes a better look around. There are two doors, equally fancy as the furniture, and his clothes (only then does he notice that he isn’t wearing his own clothes), now clean, are set on the dresser. 

He heads to one of the doors and stands with his back to it. He reaches out with shaking fingers and presses down on the handle. He opens the door, just a crack, to see a long banister along the wall, following down into a winding staircase. He stays there, just looking, for longer than he should when the soft thumping of footsteps comes closer and closer. He quickly shuts the door, and looks around, blood sprinting through his veins, and opens the other door. It’s dark, and there is no visible light source, but the footsteps have stopped right in front of the door. And just as one door closes, the other shuts. 

Dean leans against the door and puts his ear on it, straining for any sign, or anything. Desperation and fear makes everything too fast and too slow. Outside, he hears the soft muffled noises of glass on wood and- ah- of a door closing. He can’t see anything, but his hands tell him a small knob rests just under the handle. He prays for silence, but as soon as he turns the knob, a loud gunshot noise fills his ears. But there is no noise outside. It is merely silent. He almost wishes for more sound but waits. 

Dean waits. He waits for a creek or a banging, but gets nothing. He waits so long thats he’s sure that the room is empty. He fingers the lock again. The gunshot noise comes again, and yet again, he waits. Finally, he pushes the door. 

He almost automatically closes it again because on the bed he was just on sits a man. He stops himself (for reasons he cannot fathom), and stares. The man there looks up and says, “Hello, Dean Winchester”. 

Dean’s eyebrows furrow in confusion at the knowledge of his name, and he mumbles, “The fuck?…” 

The man merely raises an eyebrow, looking, well, looking like he was scolding a 3-year-old. 

Dean hesitantly says, “Whoever you are, I’m not who you’re looking for. I don’t even know you.”

“I don’t think so either.”

“What do you want from me?”

“Right now? I want you to drink this.” He says, holding out a glass of clear substance.

“Woah there man, I’m not drinking anything.”

“Dean, may I call you Dean?, it isn’t drugged. Here, I’ll take a sip.”

As the conversation progresses. Dean slowly inches to the dresser. His clothes are in arm’s reach, but the weird man has stood up now, having already taken a sip, and is now approaching him. He is only about a meter away when Dean snatches his clothes and blots out the door. He runs along the banister and down the stairs to what is most evidently the front door. He hears a sharp “DEAN!” behind him, but keeps going. He tries to open the front door, but some fancy electronic lock starts to wail. Franticly, he looks around and sees a glass door to a lawn. In hastiness, Dean crosses his arms over his face and jumps through it. The glass shatters, and shards run through his skin, lacerating it. He runs and runs, going wherever which way is clear. Only after he reaches a familiar neighborhood does he stop. 

Panting, hands on knees, and somehow still gripping his clothes, all his adrenaline washes out and leave only fatigue and stabbing pain. 

He limps to the motel, and with much surprise, find the key and the wad of hundreds in his bundle of clothes. He walks in to no one but the smell of alcohol in the air and falls face first to the bed.


End file.
